


The Lines Have All Been Drawn

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, Gen, M/M, Pre-Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Los Santos is nothing like Jeremy was expecting and everything he was warned against. He kind of loves it here.





	The Lines Have All Been Drawn

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this amazing piece of art](http://semikats.tumblr.com/post/156696393914/some-pre-fahc-jeremy-dont-take-the-night-shift), and then shenanigans???

Jeremy meets Matt when he runs down to the game store by his work on his lunch break to pick up the newest Pokemon game. The cashier is a sarcastic guy who eyes the copy Jeremy's holding like it personally offends him. 

Jeremy _smiles_ because he's not in the mood to deal with some pretentious jerk who doesn't think Pokemon is a legitimate game franchise. That a _real_ gamer - 

“The other version's better.”

Jeremy blinks, internal rant derailing.

“What?”

The guy huffs, waving the game at him. “The other version? Totally better. This one's shit.”

Jeremy's mouth drops open. “Fuck you, no it's not.”

Voltorb's one of the exclusives in it, of course it's awesome.

Things just get worse (better) from there, until Jeremy's phone rings. His boss yelling at him to get back to the pizza shop because the other delivery driver called out sick and they're backed up, fuckin' Christ, get down here, Dooley.

“Oh, shit, I have to go,” Jeremy says, and points at the cashier. “Hold on to that, I'm coming back for it tomorrow, you dick.”

The guy rolls his eyes and mutters something about Voltorb being a piece of shit. 

Jeremy laughs as he runs out the door to his car, because this guy obviously doesn't know what he's talking about and it's _great_.

When he comes back the next day the guy - “Hey, asshole, my name's Matt. Says so on my name-tag and everything.” - hands over the alternate version of the Pokemon game and raises an eyebrow at Jeremy like he's daring him to make an issue of it.

“You're gonna want to get this version, trust me. No shitty Voltorbs in sight.”

And that.

Jeremy's laughing again as he launches into a heated defense of Voltorb while Matt stares at him and shakes his head at every point Jeremy brings up, and it's the best.

========

The weather in Los Santos takes some getting used to.

Hot like the surface of the sun one day, gloomy and overcast and raining buckets the next, not much in between.

Okay, also. 

The rampant crime and way Jeremy is starting to realize the police and other law enforcement agencies barely have a foothold in the city. Don't really do much other than hassle the law-abiding citizens about parking tickets and traffic infractions and make these sad little attempts to catch the criminals basically running wild in the streets.

Like that piece of junk that just screamed past the game store, police cars in pursuit and their sirens fading as they hit the intersection.

“Nice city,” Jeremy says, leaning against the counter watching Matt sort through the stack of trade-ins from the previous day. “I can see why you like it here.”

Matt looks up at him through his hair, and snorts. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “It's paradise.”

Jeremy grins, reaching over to nudge one the games in the “shit game, but worth money to the tasteless” pile so it's hanging off the edge of the counter just so.

“Stop it, you fuck.”

Jeremy gives Matt a wide-eyed look, hurt that he'd take such a tone with him and goes after the “only morons would touch this piece of shit” pile instead.

Matt sighs and looks up at Jeremy, eyes narrowed. “You want something, asshole?”

Jeremy straightens up and _grins_. “I thought you'd never ask, Matt! What are you doing after work?”

It's not that Matt's a suspicious person by nature so much as it is he's a tad paranoid. Which makes sense in a city like Los Santos, really. 

“Why?”

“I need help on a co-op achievement, and you're not complete shit at games, so. You know.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “Such a fuckin' sweet talker. Fine, sure.”

“Sweet,” Jeremy says. The leans his elbows on the counter and bats his eyes. “Your place or mine?”

Matt shoves one of his massive paws he calls a hand in Jeremy's face and shoves him back, which is both incredibly rude and an invasion of Jeremy's personal space, but whatever.

“My place, then,” Matt says, dry as the desert. “God knows I'm not setting foot in the dump you call an apartment.”

The thing is, Matt's being generous calling it a dump when really it's a shithole. A tiny, cramped one-room shithole that costs Jeremy an arm and a leg and half the time something's broken or on its way to being broken. Not worth what he pays for it, but the other places he could afford are somehow _worse_ , so.

“Okay, that's just hurtful,” Jeremy says, hand on his heart. “That's my home you're talking about, Matt. _My home_.”

Matt raises an eyebrow, unimpressed as hell, and Jeremy can't hold it in anymore, breaks down laughing while Matt laments his life choices that have led to this moment.

========

Maybe it goes hand in hand with Los Santos being a crime-ridden city, but everything's expensive here. 

Everything.

Jeremy got the first decent job he could when he moved there, some thing delivering pizzas for a small independent shop. They're known for making deliveries into neighborhoods even the cops don't go to unless it's a dire situation, so it's not that surprising when Jeremy gets carjacked one night.

Pulls over at an intersection waiting for the light to change and turns his head to see some guy walking over to him with a gun in his hand.

“Hey, fucker, give me your fucking car.”

For a long moment Jeremy just stares at the guy.

Takes in the dirty clothes and gaunt face, eyes a little wild. The scraggly hair and bad breath and missing teeth. Realizes the guy's likely so low down in the hierarchy of Los Santos's criminal world that the best he's going to do is steal some idiot pizza delivery guy's car. (Which you know, great for Jeremy.)

Jeremy thinks about how close to the car the guy's standing, easily within arm's reach. 

Even though it's been a while since he's properly worked out, Jeremy's got some muscle on him. Might not do too much damage to the guy from this angle, but more than enough to be able to surprise him, stun him if he's lucky. Buy Jeremy enough time to slam his foot down on the gas and speed off.

But this guy isn't completely stupid, must see the wheels turning in Jeremy's head, or maybe he's getting impatient, who the hell knows. Because he takes a step back and fires off a shot that shatters the back window of the car, and Jeremy lifts his hands off the steering wheel because even he's not that dumb. 

“Get the fuck out,” the guy says, surprisingly pleasantly as he holds his gun level on Jeremy, and Jeremy does as he says. Hands over the little pouch with money for the pizzas he's delivered and watches as the guy drives off shedding safety glass as he goes.

“Well, shit,” Jeremy says, looking around and wondering how long it's going to take him to get brutally murdered walking back to the pizza shop from here.

========

Matt comes to the rescue when Jeremy calls him from a convenience store in a less murder-friendly neighborhood.

“Dude,” Matt says, glancing at Jeremy every so often as they head back to the pizza shop. “Congratulations, you're a man now.”

Like being carjacked is a right of passage here in Los Santos. 

Jeremy snorts, hands fisted his on knees loosening slightly.

“Thanks,” he says, giving Matt a smile he doesn't really feel.

It took a while for it to sink in while he was waiting for Matt that he that he lost his fucking car. Stupid beater he's had since high school that somehow made the cross-country drive to Los Santos and bravely soldiered on when Jeremy entered the lucrative world of pizza delivery bitch.

And now he's lost it, and that means he's definitely out of a job and Los Santos is expensive. No way he's going to be able to afford his crappy apartment now.

“Uh,” Matt says. “I could put in a good word for you with my boss?”

Matt's a smart guy, knows Jeremy's never going to see his car again, not in this city. Knows a pizza delivery guy without a car isn't going to have much of a future.

Jeremy sinks back in his seat and smiles at Matt, stupidly fond of him. 

“Yeah? You'd do that?”

Matt shrugs, awkward and uncomfortable. “Sure. I mean, no one else at that place knows a damn thing about games, so. You know.”

========

Jeremy's not holding his breath on Matt's boss hiring him out of the blue.

The guy's an asshole who barely knows how to run a business, something he knows from Matt venting during online gaming sessions. And also, the phone calls he may or may not have eavesdropped on a few times while he was hanging around at the store.

He could go back to what he used to do in Boston, shitty little gig that eventually got him enough money to move across the country.

Could, but he left for a reason. Didn't want to head down the same slippery slope he saw so many people go down. Didn't want it to be the thing that defined his life, and it took him a damn long time to break free of it. Headed to Los Santos for a reason, wanted something of a fresh start out here, so.

So Jeremy goes looking for something else, and manages to get a job in the only line of work in Los Santos with a higher mortality rate than the police department.

“Holy shit, Jeremy,” Matt says, when Jeremy rolls into the game store with what he's sure is a used uniform shirt and a shitty name-tag made from one of those embossing label makers he used to play with as a kid. “You're going to die.”

Jeremy is well aware of that. 

His new boss is also well aware of that, which is why Jeremy got a badly packaged uniform shirt and a name-tag that's basically a reusable sticker. Also the reason he'd kept dodging the issues of benefits or possible future raises. Laughing nervously and saying they'd discuss it at a later date, looking everywhere but at Jeremy.

Super reassuring.

“Funny you should say that, Matt,” Jeremy says with a bright smile because hey, why the hell not?

“There was a clause in the contract about that. My family can't sue if some jerk-off kills me over a Slim Jim!”

Matt stares at him for a long, long moment. 

Jeremy also stares at Matt for a long, long, moment, because this is the time for that, it looks like.

“Oh, man,” Matt says, with a solemn expression on his face as he reaches out to put a hand on Jeremy's shoulder. “That sucks.”

Kind of, yeah.

========

Problem is, even taking the graveyard shift Jeremy's new job at the convenience store doesn't pay as well as his old job. No tips for one, and for another, every time the place gets robbed his boss takes it out of everyone's pay when he has to beef up security even though it never works.

“Hey, so,” Matt says, while Jeremy's helping him check expiration dates on the snacks the game store carries, “I'm in the market for a new roommate.”

Wow, what a coincidence.

“Uh,” Jeremy says, frowning a little as he tries to make out the blurry set of numbers on the back of a back of gummy bears. “What happened to your roommate?”

Jeremy met him once, this surly little guy who walked around like the world owed him.

Matt shrugs, flinging a bag of Skittles into the trash. “Disappeared on me.” 

People just disappear in Los Santos sometimes, which sounds like a great lead-in to some police-procedural or a gritty film noir, but it isn't. It's just reality here.

“What?”

“Asshole just vanished on me a week ago, I think? Right before the rent was due too, the fucker.”

Matt doesn't seem all that broken up about it, which Jeremy gets. The guy had come off as an asshole, and Jeremy hadn't been the one sharing a living space with him. 

“What if he's just, like, on vacation or something?” Jeremy asks, because it's a possibility. 

Maybe he won a contest and had to leave without notice or lose it, or, you know. Something that doesn't involve the poor bastard's body being dumped in the ocean or being found in a ditch somewhere.

Matt levels a look at him, and says, “Jeremy.”

“Ugh, okay, yeah,” Jeremy says. “I'll think about it.”

Matt rolls his eyes, but lets the subject go for the time being, which is awesome.

========

A few nights later Jeremy's half-asleep when the bell over the door to the convenience store jingles. He looks up, opening his mouth to deliver the standard greeting, voice drying up when he sees who just walked in.

You get used to celebrity sightings in Los Santos, with Vinewood right there and everything. Get used to seeing movie stars and starlets racing down the streets in their expensive little sports cars, young and convinced they're invincible, but then there are people like this.

Tall, dark, and not-so-subtly menacing, what with the damn skull mask and all.

“Uh,” Jeremy manages. “Welcome?”

The Vagabond gives a little nod and picks up one of the shopping baskets and wanders down an aisle, and Jeremy swears he's whistling.

Jeremy watches him until he turns down an aisle and out of sight and pinches himself _hard_ , convinced he's fallen asleep on his feet and is having some kind of horrific dream.

“Fucking, _ow_ ,” he hisses, staring down at the red mark on his wrist, the little indents his nails left and absently wonders why he never got around to writing his Will. 

He's been on on the wrong end of a gun more than a few times since coming to Los Santos, enough to know his luck can only go so far, and yet.

“Hey.”

Jeremy starts, looking up to see the Vagabond looking down at him, head cocked slightly as he empties the basket on the counter in front of Jeremy.

“You, um. All right there?”

For some reason, Jeremy never really thought about what the Vagabond would sound like. Some part of him assuming it'd be along the lines of Skeletor from the 80's _He-Man_ cartoon because skull mask, obviously.

Not this deep, smooth thing that's oddly soothing in a weird, unsettling kind of way. Also, the way he seems awkwardly concerned that Jeremy may be having some kind of episode.

“Ha, yeah, no,” Jeremy babbles, batting at the register to get it working. “Sorry, daydreaming.”

The Vagabond makes a humming noise, pulling a wallet out – and there's no way he misses the way Jeremy tenses at that – slow and easy, like he's perfectly aware of the effect he's having here.

Jeremy takes the crumpled bills the Vagabond hands him. Very deliberately doesn't wonder what the reddish-brown stains on a few of them are, and cheerfully hands over the change.

“Have a good night!” Jeremy chirps, new-found Retail Voice horrifying even him no matter how often he uses it, and he has to bite back hysterical laughter when the Vagabond pauses at hearing it.

There's this awkward little stretch of time that just seems to go on and on and on. The Vagabond staring at Jeremy who's holding out the bag containing his purchases with a smile on his face. Both of them with this acute awareness at how bizarre the moment is.

And then the Vagabond clears his throat, taking the bag from Jeremy and giving him another little nod of his head. “You too,” he says as he turns to leave. 

Jeremy stares straight ahead for a long, long moment after the door closes after him and leans on the counter, heart beating a little too fast because _what the fuck_.

========

Jeremy doesn't tell Matt about his little celebrity sighting.

========

He does, however, rethink that decision when the Vagabond keeps coming by the convenience store a few nights a week after that, almost like clockwork. 

Jeremy starts to get the feel of this moods by the shit he buys, which. He'd never expected that to become a thing, but there it is. 

He keeps an eye on what the Vagabond sets down on the counter as Jeremy rings him up, and learns to tailor his small-talk based around it.

Decides his boss won't miss a bag of Kit Kats here and there on the bad nights. The ones when the Vagabond is nearly non-vocal, something a bit mechanical about his movements. 

Jeremy casually telling him there's meant to be a sale on and he's been so busy with other things to put the signs up for it yet, so go wild, buddy. Drops the Retail Voice he learned after a few weeks into this job and puts more of himself into things as Jeremy wishes the Vagabond a good night. 

It's dangerous, this (stupidly so) because Jeremy's alone here in Los Santos. Doesn't really know anyone and here he goes latching onto people who aren't his boss or a co-worker for his social interaction needs. 

Matt's great, but Jeremy doesn't want to lean too hard on him, not when Matt's got a lot going on in his life that doesn't include Jeremy.

So, hey. Why not imprint on a wanted criminal known for being particularly brutal? There's no way that could possibly go wrong.

Besides, most of the time the Vagabond's like one of his regulars. Just a guy who stops by on the way home to grab a few things.

“Hey, buddy,” Jeremy says, lifting a hand in a wave as he struggles with one of the displays. 

Some asshole came in a few hours ago and knocked into it, breaking off one of its legs and he's trying to jury-rig something to keep it standing upright. 

The Vagabond waves back, and Jeremy still can't get over how incredibly awkward it always comes off as, like the poor guy fails at social interaction. Likes to think he's helping on that front, giving him practice. Like he's really going to need it while out wreaking havoc with his crew and whatnot.

Jeremy doesn't look too hard at the fact he feels an odd sort of affection for this guy who goes around wearing a dumb mask and fumbles his words sometimes. Is endearingly awkward as all hell when it comes to social interactions, just because he sees him on a regular basis now.

After a few minutes and a quarter of a roll of duct tape Jeremy finally manages to get the display reasonably stable. Good enough for now since they're going to replace in a week or two with a different one anyway.

When he gets to the register, the Vagabond is waiting patiently, and Jeremy flashes him a smile that goes a little flat when he gets a good look at him.

“Um,” Jeremy says, and points at his own cheek. “There's, uh. You have a little something there, pal.”

The Vagabond reaches up, fingers coming away smeared with red and locks eyes with Jeremy, all awkwardness gone.

Looking at him, the way he's holding himself, Jeremy's suddenly, painfully reminded that the Vagabond's not just one of his regulars. 

Is, in fact, one of the most dangerous people in the city of Los Santos, and Jeremy's just some dumb convenience store clerk. (A tiny, really annoying part of his mind brings up the statistics on convenience store clerk deaths in Los Santos he looked up one night because Jeremy's an absolute _moron_.)

Still.

“Here,” Jeremy says, and holds out the roll of paper towels they keep under the counter for messes and spills.

Dredges up a smile from somewhere and sets about ringing the Vagabond up like he doesn't have someone else's blood on that mask of his. That there isn't some splattered along one shoulder, and oh, God.

The Vagabond grunts, taking the roll and wiping away the blood in these brisk, precise movements. Drops the used towels in the trash on his side of the counter, and then gives Jeremy a few paper bills.

Jeremy takes them, counting out the change and hands it back all the while certain his night's going to end badly. That the Vagabond's decided he's seen too much – but the only thing that happens is the Vagabond murmuring a quiet, “Thanks,” before leaving, and Jeremy, okay.

Jeremy digs in his pocket for his phone and starts to punch in Matt's number, never mind the time, and stops with his thumb hovering over the call button.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, wondering what he's thinking because what is he supposed to tell Matt?

That he's been exchanging pleasantries with one of Los Santos' Most Wanted when the guy comes in for a junk food run in the middle of the night? That he's pretty sure whoever's blood was on his mask tonight is dead?

That would go over well, wouldn't it.

Jeremy stares at his phone for a long moment and sighs. Shoves it back into his pocket and heads around the counter to grab the trash bag. Stops just long enough to pick up one of the cheap little disposable lighters from the counter and heads out back to burn the evidence.

========

Jeremy calls out sick for a couple of days after that, even though he knows it's beyond pointless.

Everyone knows the Fakes have a hacker, a damn good one at that to have pulled the kind of things they have. Finding the name and address of one particularly stupid cashier at a convenience store wouldn't be hard even if he has a habit of dying his hair different colors every few weeks.

He half expects to open his door to the Vagabond or one of the other Fakes at any moment the whole time. Or even worse, just some no-name punk sent to deal with him because he's that low on the threat list, but it never happens.

What he gets instead is Matt on the afternoon of the second day looking immensely annoyed at having to come all the way down here to Jeremy's shitty little apartment.

“What, were you expecting someone else?” Matt asks, foot wedged in the doorway in case Jeremy thinks about shutting it in his face again. “Also, let me in you asshole.”

Jeremy really thinks about it. About shutting the door in Matt's face again, that is, but one of his neighbors is poking her head out of her door. Watching, judging, and Jeremy's got enough to deal with that he doesn't want to be the source of building gossip again.

“Fine,” Jeremy says, like it's the worst thing in the world, the last thing he wants. “Get in here, then.”

Matt rolls his eyes, glancing at Jeremy as he brushes past. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

Jeremy thinks about telling him what's going on, but this is Matt, right? Weird, quirky guy who works at a video game store and seems pretty content with his life. Pretty keen on that whole being alive thing, even if he is one hundred percent wrong about Voltorb. (Jeremy will never let that go, _never_.)

“Just not feeling that great, man,” Jeremy says instead, gesturing at himself. “Didn't want to get you sick if it's a bug, which is why I didn't head to the game store. But then you came here, so you know. Screw you for ruining my heroic sacrifice for your sake.”

Matt bats his eyes at Jeremy as he plays up his accent. Places a hand on his chest like a southern belle, and goes, “Well if that isn't the sweetest little thing,” in a trilling falsetto, because he's also an asshole.

Jeremy stares at him for a long time and says, “I hope it's the black plague.”

Matt laughs, says, “Same,” and Jeremy gives the hell up.

========

He doesn't see the Vagabond again for a while after that, but that doesn't mean the celebrity sightings stop, no. 

A couple of weeks pass and Jeremy looks up to see Mogar browsing the aisles. Grabbing the Vagabond's usual purchases and a few other things besides and tossing them into one of the shopping baskets without a care. 

No cares given, because it's less like he's tossing things into the shopping basket and and more like powerbombing them in. Or, the equivalent. Something.

“Problem?” Mogar asks, when he catches Jeremy staring.

Jeremy opens his mouth to answer, and shuts it again because he's been down this road with the Vagabond before, right. Got to thinking about him as some big old dork who must have a serious sweet tooth with the shit he came in to buy. Forgot who he was, what city they're in. 

Gotten a little too comfortable in their little exchanges, the routine of it all. Seeing what he started to think of as a friendly – safe – face, and look how that turned out.

But because Jeremy's an idiot, he's still looking at Mogar. Guy who has this expression on his face that's just daring Jeremy to make an issue of the way he's handling the merchandise.

Jeremy shrugs because he doesn't actually care. Isn't particularly devoted to this job, doesn't have any reason to give a damn if Mogar's mangling the shit he's going to buy.

“I've got a fucked up case of those in the back if you want it. Looks like it got wedged in the corner of the truck, took a beating. We were going to have to mark it off as a loss and trash it since it's nothing but crumbs.”

The look on Mogar's face goes from suspicious to wary with a hint of annoyed as hell and moves on to something like warily interested.

“Yeah?”

Jeremy nods, feels a smile creeping up on hims as he holds up a hand, asking Mogar give him a moment and heads into the back to grab the box. 

When he comes back out Mogar's leaning against the register counter. There's something softer in his face, too. Something that makes him look less like one of the infamous Fakes and more like someone around Jeremy's age who's looking to mess with a co-worker.

“Here you go,” Jeremy says, gingerly setting what's left of the case on the counter. “On the house since we can't sell it like this.”

There's nothing left _to_ sell, really. 

Mogar's grinning when he looks up at Jeremy. “Fucking sweet, I'll take it.”

Jeremy grabs a bag and drops the case in it, shrugging when Mogar looks at him curiously. 

“Didn't think you wanted to get that shit on your seats,” he says, because there are more than a few gaping holes in the case. Little bits of its contents dribbling out when they turn it too far one way or another. 

“Oh, Christ. Yeah, no. Thanks for that,” Mogar says, tipping an imaginary hat as he leaves. “See you again sometime.”

Jeremy watches him go, and wonders how long it's going to be before he becomes the accessory to another crime the way these things seem to go for him.

========

A month.

========

The answer is a month before Jeremy goes out back to empty the trash and finds Mogar dragging a fucking body behind him.

Jeremy remembers hearing the police sirens screaming by the store earlier. A few of his regulars coming in for their usual purchases and looking to gossip about the latest goings on in the city. The commotion taking place a few blocks down, and some pointed looks his way because convenience store clerk in Los Santos, and all. (Jeremy figures that was their subtle warning to get the hell out because he'd probably end up dead by morning.)

Jeremy looks around to see if anyone's out and about beside them, but it seems someone's looking out for wayward convenience store clerks and Los Santos' Most Wanted.

He watches the slow, painful progression for a few minutes. Mogar too focused on what he's doing to realize he has an audience comprised of one very exasperated convenience store clerk and the handful of strays that hang around the back of the store.

“Are you shitting me right now?” Jeremy says, more to himself than anything else because he's just so unbelievably done with this city. 

Mogar's head snaps up, and Jeremy raises his hands when he sees the gun he's holding. 

Goes very, very still and remembers that for whatever stupid reason, he _still_ hasn't gotten around to writing out his Will.

Probably should have, considering the number of times he's either had a gun pointed at him or been way to close to someone who could kill him just as easily without one.

Jeremy sees the moment recognition hits Mogar. Eyes darting to the sign bolted next to the back door of the convenience store with the company logo at the bottom like he hadn't realized where he was. 

“Jeremy, right?” Mogar asks, waving the gun in the general direction of Jeremy's name-tag.

And, you know. 

It's a name-tag. 

Jeremy's not going to get the warm fuzzies thinking Mogar remembered his name when it's right there on his chest for anyone to see.

“Uh, yeah,” Jeremy says, eyes flicking to the body when it shifts slightly, lets out a pained groan. And, because he's an idiot, “Your buddy isn't looking that great by the way.”

Mogar's face twists into a scowl as he looks down at the guy he's been dragging and sighs. 

“No shit,” he says but it's not angry, just. 

Really fucking tired.

Watching him, all Jeremy can think of is the guy who came in a few weeks ago. Angry, annoyed, throwing shit into his shopping basket that clearly wasn't for him. 

But he'd still gone out and gotten it, hadn't he. Came in to buy the same shit the Vagabond did when things were going well enough. (And, sure. He'd grabbed the opportunity to mess with the guy when Jeremy offered it, and oh, Christ, that's probably going to bite him in the ass at some point, isn't it.)

There are sirens in the distance, but then again there are always sirens somewhere in Los Santos. Doesn't mean a damn thing when it comes down to it.

Jeremy glances at the store and the back door that's still propped open, and feels something like a headache coming on. Looks back at Mogar who's bent over the not-body looking strangely vulnerable, and makes another terrible decision in a long line of them.

“We've, uh. There's a first-aide kit in the back room,” Jeremy says. “If you want it.”

Mogar looks up at Jeremy. There's suspicion in his face, and some little bit of hope that catches and snags on Jeremy, sinks its tiny little claws in deep.

“C'mon,” Jeremy says, clearing his throat as he kicks the back door open a little wider. “I'll help you.”

========

The not-body turns out to be a member of the Fakes and has an accent.

“So you're Jeremy,” he says, words coming out a little clumsy because it looks like he took a hell of a hit to the head somewhere along the way. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Mogar's still scowling, but his hands are gentle as he cleans the not-body's injuries. Taking care as he tends to the mess of blood and torn skin and tissue on the side of his head. 

Jeremy's familiar enough with concussions to know the signs, so he does his best to get the guy's attention. Keep him talking about stupid shit, distract him from what Mogar's doing as he patches him up because it's not exactly pretty. Probably hurts like a bitch, and Jeremy's no stranger to that side of things either.

He can feel Mogar watching him, still wary, but he doesn't say anything. Just does what he can with the head wound using what they have available before he moves on to plucking little splinters of glass out of the not-body's hands with dogged determination.

“M'name's Gavin,” the not-body says after a while, like he's appalled he hasn't introduced himself. Tries to pull one of his hands from Mogar's grip to extend to Jeremy, but Mogar growls and shifts his hold to wrap his fingers around Gavin's wrist and doesn't let go.

“Fucking hold still or you'll make it worse, you idiot.”

Gavin blinks, slow, and looks down at his hands as though he hasn't noticed the miserable state they're in at the moment.

“Oh, dear, that's not going to be fun to deal with.”

Mogar snorts, eyes meeting Jeremy's for a brief moment as he goes back to picking glass out of Gavin's hands. 

“Yeah, you're telling me. You're going to be a goddamned pain about it too. I know you, you fucker.”

They slip into this easy bickering that Jeremy tunes out as he watches the two of them and thinks, _well, shit_ again, because this is getting ridiculous, isn't it. 

And that's when the bells out front jingle, and when Jeremy leans around the doorway sees a police officer walk in through the door.

“Shit,” Jeremy says, so very quietly as he looks back to see Mogar and Gavin watching him. 

Sees the way Mogar's hand is on the gun tucked in his waistband, tension running through him. Sees Gavin with glass in his hands and eyes that aren't focusing just right, and says again, because he feels the moment calls for it, “Shit.”

And also, “Wait, shit. No. What are you doing?”

Mogar looks at him, expression frighteningly neutral. 

“We appreciate your help,” he says, indicating Gavin with a flick of his hand. “But like hell are we going to let some beat cop take us down.”

Jeremy stares at Mogar who is looking very dramatic and heroic (except for the implied murder part) back-lit by the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The thing that really makes the scene for Jeremy, though, has to be the motivational poster of the poor kitten hanging from a tree limb behind him, _but_.

“Uh, no.” Jeremy says, and watches Mogar swing the gun in his hand to point at him, no flicker of emotion in his face or his eyes to betray what he's thinking.

Nothing but determination there. Cold and hard the way this city seems to make everyone, and Jeremy sighs. 

“It's _Carl_ ,” he says, like that explains anything.

Only it does, because Carl is one of his regulars and almost certainly on the take, if the shit he's let slip is any indication. Carl whose wife just had a kid. Who just bought a _house_ , and holy shit, he's like that guy in all the movies they use to tug at your heartstrings before they kill him off as motivation for the hero.

Jeremy's about the furthest thing from being a hero you can get, but - 

“'Carl.'”

Jeremy rolls his eyes at the flat tone Mogar uses.

“He's an idiot,” Jeremy says, because it's true. What moron goes around telling a virtual stranger the kind of shit Carl does? “But he's harmless. I can get rid of him if you let me talk to him, and you won't have to kill him. Also, someone would notice, even in this neighborhood.”

Jeremy can tell Mogar doesn't give a shit about Carl. Doesn't care about some cop, or even the convenience store clerk who is a complete idiot for doing what he has, but he glances down at Gavin. 

He has to know their odds of getting out of this are pretty shit if he goes out there and kills Carl and his partner, riles up the cops with the condition they're both in. 

“Don't fuck us over,” Mogar growls, low and threatening and Jeremy may be an idiot, but he's not stupid.

“Thanks for the pep talk!” he says brightly, and zooms right on out of there before he gets himself murdered in the back room of a shitty convenience store.

=========

Carl's easy.

Jeremy leans on the counter and lets him ramble. Nods appreciatively at the baby pictures he shows Jeremy on his phone and pretends it's not the ugliest baby he's ever seen, no offense. Gives him a free hot dog for being a deterrent to crime as a thanks, and nearly has a heart attack when Carl's partner walks in just when he thinks they're in the clear.

Big guy, looks like someone out of an old Western, and in all the time Carl's been coming in, Jeremy's never gotten his name.

He watches the guy wander the store. Stopping to fix himself a cup of coffee, pick up a bag of candy, and always, always alert. Studying his surroundings and shit, Jeremy doesn't know, but when he makes it to the register he looks at Jeremy, eyes dropping to his name-tag.

“Cut yourself?”

Jeremy frowns as he follows the guy's gaze, sees a smear of blood over the 'r' on his name-tag.

Carl looks over from where he's stuffing his face with something like concern. 

Jeremy laughs, waving a hand at the back room. “This place is falling apart, man,” he says. “Doesn't help that I've been been working doubles, so you know.”

The guy's eyes narrow and Jeremy smiles up at him all sunny and helpful and totally law-abiding, Mr. Officer.

After a long staredown, the guy snorts, eyes cutting to Carl. “Wash your goddamn hands before you get in the car this time, you asshole.”

He gives Jeremy a nod and it's clear he knows something is up, but maybe he's in on shit with Carl, or just doesn't get paid enough to give a shit. 

Jeremy doesn't know, doesn't care as long as it gets him the hell out of the store.

Carl grumbles after his back, and Jeremy hands him the massively unwieldy keychain to the bathroom. Waits for something to happen like a goddamn fleet of cop cars surrounding the store in the time it takes Carl to take a piss and (hopefully) wash his hands, but nothing does.

“Sorry about him,” Carl says, handing the keychain back. “Guy grew up watching old movies. Thinks he's some kind of super cop.”

Jeremy laughs it off, says they're in the right city for it because hey, Vinewood's right there, right? And the moment Carl and his partner back out of the parking lot goes to check on the hardened criminals he's been aiding and abetting like a champ.

Mogar's got this look on his face. Highly critical, and Jeremy, okay.

“Do not judge me, pal,” Jeremy says, because he was using his stupid Retail Voice the whole damn time. He knows damn well how horrifying it is, no need for someone else's opinion on the matter. “Also, thanks for not killing anyone just now.”

That gets an eyeroll from Mogar and Gavin handing Jeremy his phone, which he knows for a fact was in his pocket earlier. 

“Seriously?” Jeremy asks, impressed in spite of himself. “ _Seriously_.”

Gavin shrugs, this little smile on his face as he looks at Mogar.

“Fucking klepto,” Mogar says by way of explanation. “We'll be out of your hair in a bit, someone's coming to pick us up.”

========

That someone turns out to be the Vagabond, who takes one look at Jeremy and _sighs_.

Jeremy smiles, but can't really wave since Gavin's leaning most of his weight on him. 

“Hey, buddy.”

Mogar shoves past the Vagabond who is just staring at Jeremy, and helps him get Gavin in the car. Slams the door and glares pointedly at the Vagabond before rolling the windows of the car up.

“So,” Jeremy says.

The Vagabond sighs again. Lifts a hand like he wants to rub his eyes, but you know. Stupid mask.

“I was trying,” the Vagabond says, slow, like he's picking his words carefully in light of recent events, “ _not_ to get you involved in all this.”

Jeremy hums, nodding understandingly. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get that.” He does. Appreciates the hell out of that, because hey. It's always nice not to be wanted by the police and everything. 

Unfortunately, this is Los Santos and Jeremy's an idiot, so. 

“Nice try, though.” Jeremy grins at the annoyed huff the Vagabond lets out. “Totally nailed it.”

========

Jeremy doesn't tell Matt about any of that either because where would he even start?

========

“You look like shit, man,” Matt says by way of greeting. 

Jeremy grunts, and pulls out the stack of old games he wants to trade in for a pitiful amount of money in return. Matt's usually good about it, but even he can't work magic.

“My ego thanks you for those uplifting words,” Jeremy says, and thinks about grabbing an energy drink from the cooler by the counter, but he doesn't. Has to be a financially responsible adult and all. Think about the rent money first, and it _sucks_ because he feels dead on his feet. “Really, thanks.”

Matt flashes him a cheery grin and pokes at the stack. “You really have shit taste, don't you?”

And they're off, Jeremy defending his game choices while Matt looks at him pityingly.

“Also, your hair is stupid,” Jeremy ends with, just for that added snap. 

“Coming from the guy who can't decide what color he wants his hair to be this week, right,” Matt drawls, and goddamn, Jeremy's missed him.

Working double shifts at the convenience store just to make rent has been exhausting, and that's not counting his late-night crime...dabbling, or whatever the hell it is.

He hasn't been able to stop by the game store or even catch Matt online for weeks. At most they've exchanged a few texts, more to make sure the other one's still alive than anything else.

“I missed your dumb face,” Jeremy says. Decides the hell with it and gets that energy drink anyway. Leans against the counter and listens to Matt complaining about the idiot customers he's had since Jeremy saw him last.

======== 

Jeremy's luck runs out.

========

He gets shot by some stupid kid high on something, twitchy and manic and clearly not all there. 

Jeremy doesn't even get a word out, just stands up from where he was fiddling with the magazine rack. Trying to keep it from falling over, and comes face-to-face with the kid. 

He has just enough time to register the gun in the kid's hand before something spooks him and it goes off. Something (the fucking _bullet_ ) punches Jeremy in the shoulder and he goes down.

========

“Jesus Christ, Jeremy.”

Jeremy opens his eyes and sees Matt, and that should be weird, shouldn't it? Matt wasn't at the store when Jeremy got shot, and hadn't that been a fun experience.

Pain and blood and at some point Carl leaning over him, yelling at his partner to call for an ambulance, Christ that's a lot of blood. 

The ambulance ride to the hospital, and the worrying blank space in in his memory between then and now he's not going to think about too much.

And now Matt, for some reason.

“What are you doing here?” 

Matt glares at him. “Apparently I'm your emergency contact, you asshole.”

Oh. 

Oh, yeah.

Matt's pretty much the only person he knows in Los Santos who isn't work-related in some way or a notorious wanted criminal. 

“Yeah, I was going to tell you about that,” Jeremy says, which is a damn lie. “Surprise?”

Matt grumbles, settling back in the crappy little chair next to Jeremy's bed. Just watches Jeremy, with this _look_ on his face.

“Hey,” Jeremy says, because Matt just keeps _looking_ at him. “So my night wasn't great.”

Tiny bit of an understatement, and clearly Matt's not in the mood to appreciate Jeremy's messed up sense of humor because - 

Well.

Matt's eyes widen and he sucks in a breath like he's getting ready to say something, lay into Jeremy maybe, but then he just. 

Deflates. 

Sighs, like Jeremy is the greatest challenge life has decided to place in his path and he just cannot muster up the energy to deal with that right now.

“I fucking hate you, Jeremy.”

Which, fair. 

Jeremy kind of hates himself a little too for forgetting the kind of place Los Santos is. Letting himself get so damn comfortable here, in his shitty job. Thought that just because people like the Fakes stopped by and hadn't killed him yet didn't mean there were others out there in the city who'd do the same.

That anyone else in Los Santos would give much of a damn about the idiot behind the convenience store counter.

Still.

Matt keeps watching him, like he thinks some dumb bullet is enough to keep Jeremy down for long, and that.

Not untrue, really, but it's not as bad as Matt's making it seem. Because hey, Jeremy's still alive, right? Didn't manage to get himself killed by some dumb kid too high to know what the hell he was doing.

Jeremy makes a sad, pathetic attempt to reach the remote-thing that fell off the side of the bed a while ago. The cable connecting it to the hospital bed just out of reach. He throws in sad little noises to go along with his efforts when Matt just sits there and watches Jeremy struggling like the monster he is.

Says, small and pitiful, “ _Matt_.”

Matt snorts, something like a smile on his face as he grabs the remote-thing and holds it up - _monster_ \- just out of Jeremy's admittedly short reach.

“Did you want this?” Matt asks, all innocence even though he's a horrible bully and Jeremy had clearly missed all the signs before now. “Is this what you wanted, Jeremy?”

Jeremy looks at Matt, who doesn't look as close to losing his shit now. Who has a smile on his face even if it's at Jeremy's expense and thinks, _getting there, yeah, buddy_.

=========

“You're moving in with me,” Matt says by way of greeting a few days later.

Jeremy, who's been poking at what the hospital menu claims is some form of dessert looks up at him in confusion.

“I am?”

Matt makes a face when he leans in to see what Jeremy's doing, and says, “Once you're out of here, anyway.”

And Jeremy.

He sets his spoon down on the tray and looks up at Matt who's been by to visit Jeremy every day since the shooting. 

Kicking his feet up on the edge of the bed and bitching at Jeremy or picking fights with him over video games and movies and other stupid things. Keeping him company and helping him take his mind off the long road to recovery in his future. 

The insane medical bills he's going to have to deal with, because he's getting jack shit from his work. Doesn't have the money to get a lawyer to fight for it, even if he thought they'd win that one.

“Matt, man. No,” Jeremy says. “I've got a place.”

A shitty, overpriced dump, sure, but for whatever it's worth it's his. He won't be putting anyone out there. 

“You're not staying in that deathtrap while you're recovering, you idiot,” Matt snaps, “So shut the fuck up about it, already.”

Jeremy's seen Matt annoyed, irritated, but never genuinely angry, and it's a little bit terrifying.

Jeremy shuts the fuck up.

========

Matt's place is this nice little three-bedroom apartment in a surprisingly nice part of town. 

Jeremy's been there a few times before to play video games or watch movies, so he's a little surprised to find out Matt's not putting him in the room his “missing” roommate used to live in.

“Asshole's room has space for my setup,” Matt says, leaning around Jeremy to wave a hand at his computer rig. “Better light, too.”

Jeremy gives Matt a look because the room doesn't have any windows to speak of, just a light fixture on the ceiling and some weird artsy floor lamp in the corner, but whatever.

Speaking of Matt's setup – it looks like a small command center. Massive desk with multiple monitors and a mess of equipment Jeremy can't even begin to guess at and he's not completely hopeless when it comes to computers. 

“Yeah,” Matt says, when he realizes Jeremy's still staring. “A friend got me into PC gaming.”

There's something about the way he says it, the little smile he gives Jeremy that rings false, but hey. Matt's letting (strong arming) him into staying at his place until he he's healed up, and it's not like Jeremy doesn't have his own little secrets, so.

“Cool.”

Matt eyes him for a long moment, but Jeremy just keeps _smiling_ , and finally he just rolls his eyes and goes back downstairs to bring the last of Jeremy's stuff up.

At some point Matt takes a good look at Jeremy when the painkillers have started to wear off. His shoulder this steady aching throb, and makes Jeremy sit down while he goes and gets a glass of a water and grabs the bottle of painkillers along the way.

“Goddamn you're stubborn.”

Jeremy would shrug, but you know. Shoulder with a hole in it and everything.

“Like you aren't?” Jeremy counters, debates taking two of the painkillers but no, that'd just make him useless, so he opts for one. Pretends he doesn't see Matt watching him as he chases it with water. “C'mon, Matt.”

“Eh,” Matt says, and takes a seat next to Jeremy on the couch, sprawling out. “Just a little.”

Jeremy smiles, tension leeching out of him as the painkiller starts working after a bit, bringing the pain down to something close to bearable.

========

Jeremy's life for the next little while isn't so much routine as it is falling into a rut.

He sleeps most of the time, body deciding that Jeremy getting his stupid ass shot is the perfect time to catch up on all the sleep he's been missing. Thinks, hey! Time to make up for the hell he's been putting it through for too damn long now since it's working on taking care of that hole in his shoulder anyway.

Matt doesn't say a damn thing about it, just takes horrendously unflattering pictures of Jeremy drooling into pillows and all over himself in his sleep. Laughing and laughing and laughing as he sets said photos as lock screens and wallpapers for both of their phones, on every damn piece of technology he can get to in the apartment before Jeremy can switch them back.

When he's not sleeping he does what he can to pull his weight. Takes over cooking duty – which isn't an argument he has with Matt so much as a bewildering experience when he finds out Matt is a fucking animal who has zero grasp on the whole nutrition thing.

That little discovery makes Jeremy more determined than ever to make sure Matt doesn't get scurvy and die, or whatever the equivalent would be for someone like him. 

They watch shitty movies together, heckling and mocking the terrible acting and even worse plot lines. Play endless rounds of multiplayer in a slew of games into the small hours of the morning when one of them can't sleep. 

Every so often Matt will disappear into the spare room with his computer rig muttering something about some guild or clan he has plans to raid with that night, sorry dude. (Jeremy rolls his eyes and leaves him to it because, again, secrets that are none of his business.)

Somewhere in there he gets a call from his boss, one he's been expecting for a while. His boss sounds calm and collected as he tells Jeremy he's fired. That the company will pay for a percentage of his medical bills and physical therapy but otherwise Jeremy's on his own there. Tells him to get better and then get the hell out of Los Santos while he can.

And like some kind of bonus, he gets to keep the shirt he was wearing when he got shot. (Because mending the bullet hole would have been fine, but the bloodstains? Absolute murder to get out.)

There's also the whole thing where Jeremy checks in with a doctor to make sure his shoulder's healing properly every so often. Gets referred to a physical therapist he can't actually afford, but also can't afford not to see, so it's a lose-lose situation he's in, but hey.

Better to come out of it all with two working arms and the like, so he schedules his appointments for physical therapy. Deals with that ball of fear, dread sitting heavy in his belly at the thought his shoulder won't heal properly despite all what his doctor and physical therapist keeps telling him.

Maybe says something along those lines when Matt comes home from work one day to find Jeremy wallowing on the couch. 

Stupid ball of misery wrapped up in his blankets he dragged out to the living room, a game-show playing on the television that he hasn't been paying attention to.

“You're an idiot,” Matt says, around a breadstick. “Like. Holy shit, I cannot believe how stupid you are sometimes.”

Jeremy looks up at Matt, feeling tired and drained and broken after his first physical therapy session.

“Fuck you, Bragg,” Jeremy says, and rolls himself up a little tighter in his blanket. Shoulder a steady, burning pain that has him too tired, heavy, to get up and take one of his painkillers. “Also, hey. How was work?”

He hears Matt sigh, trudging away muttering to himself about Jeremy's infinite capacity for stupidity and bangs around the apartment for a bit. Comes back with a glass of water and another painkiller because he's figured out Jeremy's just that dumb. Won't take the two he should because he doesn't like how it fucks with him even though he doesn't like it.

“Here,” Matt says, and Jeremy unwinds his blanket, something like guilt to him at the pinched, worried look on Matt's face. 

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, taking the painkiller and downing half the water. 

Matt shakes his head and takes a seat across from him on his coffee table. _Looks_ at Jeremy. And when Jeremy just looks back, sighs as he offers Jeremy one of his precious, life-sustaining breadsticks. 

Starts telling Jeremy about this man who came into the game store looking for a game for his son and argued with Matt for fifteen minutes straight before he was able to convince him he was wrong.

“I mean,” Matt says, waving a hand, “everyone knows it's a console exclusive, right?”

Jeremy gives Matt a look and then reaches out to gently pat his knee. 

“Matt, from what you said I doubt the guy knows what that even means? I mean. Bear with me here, but I've heard there are people out there who don't play video games. At all.”

Matt stops chewing and frowns, like the concept is foreign to him. 

Unthinkable, even.

“Yeah, but. Why?” Matt asks. “That's just dumb.”

Jeremy snags the breadstick dangling from Matt's hand, forgotten in his bafflement, and gets to his feet, shoulder a dull ache. Uncomfortable but so much better than earlier. 

He looks at Matt who is apparently still trying to process the fact there are people who don't play video games. Bites back a laugh as he heads off to the kitchen to start dinner for them because no matter what Matt seems to think, man cannot live on breadsticks alone.

========

It takes Jeremy an embarrassingly long time to realize he's got himself a stalker.

To be fair, he's preoccupied with dealing with the mess his life's become, so he doesn't notice right away.

When he does, though.

“I can totally see you.”

Jeremy's just survived another physical therapy session, he's hurting, and for some unknown reason he's managed to get himself a stalker. 

A shitty stalker.

There's a laugh, and the gangly little prick leaning against the trunk of one of the trees lining the sidewalk straightens out of the slouch he's in. Glances around like they're in a bad spy movie and he's checking to see if anyone's looking before he pulls the hood of his hoodie down, and grins at Jeremy.

“Hey-o,” Gavin says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, hands in his pockets as he strolls up to Jeremy. 

Has this little itch right between his shoulders going, the urge to look around to see if Gavin's brought backup, if Jeremy's in real trouble here. 

He doesn't move though, just watches Gavin. Figures he should focus on the most dangerous person around right now.

“Jeremy,” Gavin says, head tilted as he looks at him, sounding hurt. Like Jeremy's been avoiding him. “I went back to the convenience store to thank you for what you did for us, and a little bird told me you'd gone and gotten yourself shot.”

Jeremy 's eyebrows go up as Gavin reaches out and gently flicks his fingers against the sling Jeremy's wearing, this slight brush of his fingers.

“Yeah, I know,” Jeremy says. “Rude of me, huh. Sorry about that. And you're welcome, I guess?”

Gavin's mouth quirks into a smile and he shakes his head, looks down the street for a moment before glancing back at Jeremy.

“You're an odd one, Jeremy Dooley,” he says after a moment, definitely amused. “I think I like that about you.”

Well, shit.

Work name-tags usually don't have your last name on it, but Jeremy figured a while back the Fakes would eventually look into him since he's gotten himself involved in their business a time or two. It would have been stupid of them not to, really.

Gavin's still looking at him, and Jeremy, okay.

He shouldn't find what Gavin just said ominous, but there's just something about Gavin right now. The way he's looking at Jeremy like he's determined to pluck all of his secrets right out of his thick skull that makes Jeremy want something solid at his back. 

Jeremy runs a hand through his hair, tries to come up with something to say to that but he's tired. Brain not up to playing whatever game it is Gavin's so keen on right now.

It's been a long day for him and the closest bus stop is almost half a mile from Matt's place. Means he gets plenty of exercise going back and forth as often as he does for physical therapy sessions, but the trip always leaves him feeling wrung out, especially in the summer heat of Los Santos.

“You look like you could use a break,” Gavin says, not unsympathetically, and Jeremy.

God, he doesn't laugh because it might come out sounding little hysterical at this point, but.

“I. Yeah, y'know what?” Jeremy says, spotting some kitschy little cafe a little ways down the street from them. “That sounds like a good idea, actually. You want to grab a coffee or something?”

There's an odd pause, Gavin blinking at him before his mouth curves upwards into a sly little grin. 

Mischievous, really.

“Why Jeremy,” he says, and bats his eyelashes at Jeremy as he hooks his arm through Jeremy's good one, starts leading them to the cafe. “So forward of you.”

Jeremy snorts, looking at Gavin who's making free with his person. Stupid smirk on his face and his easy confidence.

“Oh, well then I apologize Gavin,” he says. “Won't happen again.”

========

It does, though.

Not dates, because that's not what whatever this is between them.

Apparently Jeremy's this intricate little puzzle that Gavin just can't leave alone, and that also. That whole thing where Jeremy's an idiot.

Mostly that.

Gavin must be a better stalker than he's let on because most of the time Jeremy doesn't see him until he's right in front of him. Dressed down from his Golden Boy persona to better fit in with the Los Santos crowds. Trading in his trademark gold-framed sunglasses for some old battered things he takes care not to lose. 

He keeps seeking Jeremy out, picking just the right time when Jeremy's on his way back to Matt's and his energy's at a low point. Pulls him over to that little cafe or some tiny shop Jeremy usually walks past without really noticing to peruse the merchandise.

“Not that I'm complaining or anything,” Jeremy says, holding up a piece of “art” that looks like a five year-old made it. In the dark. While blindfolded. “But why are you doing this?”

Gavin hums as he takes a picture of the abomination Jeremy's holding and lowers his phone, eyebrow going up. 

“Taking a photo? I know you Americans are a bit slow on the uptake sometimes, but honestly, Jeremy.”

And Jeremy.

“Right, okay,” he says, because why even bother with Gavin when he's like this? The man's exasperating on a good day. “Are you buying this thing?”

Gavin laughs, eyes crinkling. 

“Good God, no, Jeremy,” he says, appalled. “It's hideous.”

Well, yeah.

“So the photo?”

There's a smile Jeremy's quickly becoming familiar with that Gavin has sometimes. Usually when he's making someone's life far more difficult than it has any reason to be.

“Ah, okay then,” Jeremy says, and hopes whatever poor bastard opens the text they're bound to get from Gavin at least deserves it.

“Don't forget to take a picture of that thing over there,” Jeremy says, gesturing to this horrible little thing that somehow surpasses the freakish thing Jeremy's still holding. 

Gavin beams at him, and Jeremy - 

Christ, he's in deep now with these assholes, isn't he?

========

A few weeks later and Jeremy's got a different stalker. 

“Hey,” Mogar says as he pauses in the text he's writing to wave at Jeremy. “Gavin's busy, so he sent me to babysit you.”

Okay?

“Uh,” Jeremy says. “What the hell?”

Mogar looks up at Jeremy, eyebrows raised. “We left you alone for like five seconds and you got yourself shot, dude. Doesn't really speak for your ability to look after yourself that well, you know.”

Okay, that's. Well, it's blatantly untrue, and also? False.

Mogar doesn't seem to notice that Jeremy's gearing up for a truly brilliant rebuttal, because he just keeps going.

“We all sat down and had a talk about it, and Gavin decided you needed babysitters, so fucking ta-da, here we are.”

Mogar – one of the most feared figures in the Los Santos underground - does jazz hands. 

_Jazz hands_.

Jeremy stares at him for a long moment. At a complete loss for words regarding the fact that several of the Fakes seem to view him as a small child unable to look after himself, and the damn _jazz hands_.

“No, really,” Jeremy says, wondering just when he crossed over into the Twilight Zone. “What the hell?”

Mogar shrugs and tucks his phone away as he walks up to Jeremy and looks him over, eyes lingering on the sling.

“It comes off next week,” Jeremy says, stupidly self-conscious. “And I don't need babysitters. But hey, thanks anyway?”

Mogar snorts. “Yeah, okay. You try telling Gavin that.”

Jeremy has, is the thing. 

Or, sure. 

He hadn't exactly called Gavin's little stalker-y habit babysitting because _no_ , but he'd definitely tried to tell him it wasn't necessary. That contrary to whatever he seemed to think Jeremy's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Had managed to do so with moderate success this long, but thank you ever so much for thinking of him.

“I did,” Jeremy says, tired, defeated. “He didn't listen.”

That gets a smirk from Mogar, along with a friendly little punch to Jeremy's good shoulder. 

“Yeah, well. Fucker's not great at that.”

Shocker.

“He said to make sure you get your treat before I walk you home,” Mogar says, and there's this little sing-song note in his voice as he waves to the cafe Jeremy and Gavin usually stop at. “Am I supposed to hold your hand when we cross the street too, or are you good?”

Oh, for - 

Mogar looks so damn smug, smirking down at Jeremy and laughing himself sick on the inside, and Jeremy, all right. Jeremy is not about to back down from this.

Jeremy looks Mogar dead in the eye and holds his hand out. 

_Smiles_.

“Hey, you can never go wrong with the buddy system, y'know? Safety first.”

========

Jeremy will never admit it in a million years, but he almost has a heart attack when the Vagabond sneaks up on him.

He's on his way back to Matt's after a physical therapy session, walking past the mouth of an alley.

“I heard the buddy system's in play?”

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Jeremy says, hand over his heart that's trying to beat its way out of his chest as he turns to face the asshole. “Why would you do that?”

He gets a darkly amused chuckle for his trouble.

“God, right,” Jeremy mutters, squinting into the conveniently shadowy alley the Vagabond's lurking in. “I forgot who I was talking to.”

The Vagabond hums, and says - still so damn amused - “Looks like you did, yeah.”

Jeremy sighs, casting a furtive looks around to make sure no one's looking before he ducks into the alley. Sees the Vagabond back up a few steps to make room for him, and - 

“Oh my God,” Jeremy says, staring up at the Vagabond's face. 

His actual face, which while nice to look at and all is kind of a problem.

“Your face is a problem,” Jeremy says, because apparently his brain has decided to stop working. Mouth taking the words jumbled up in his head and bypassing the (admittedly few) brain-to-mouth filters Jeremy has, because fuck him, that's why.

The Vagabond raises an eyebrow and he's clearly getting a kick out of this because he's an asshole. (Of course he is.)

“Is it, now?”

Like he doesn't know.

Jeremy makes this aggravated noise in his throat and drops his face into his good hand, ignores the amusement rolling off the Vagabond. 

“Could you maybe not?” Jeremy asks, rubbing his eyes. 

There's a part of him, some small, paranoid bit that's wondering if the Fakes have finally decided he's a problem. The kind of liability they can't afford and have sent the Vagabond to take care of him. 

That maybe the guy decided Jeremy's done good by them, enough he gets to see his face before he kills him, or maybe it's a thing the Vagabond _does_. Shows his face to people so they know there's no going home for them after this, that it all ends for them in some shadowy alley on a weekday afternoon.

Which, you know. 

Just a wee bit melodramatic, there. Doesn't really make a lot of sense after the past few weeks of being gently harassed by various Fakes, but tell that to Jeremy's brain.

It's not like Jeremy ever expected to see the Vagabond's face under any circumstances, so he thinks he can be forgiven for that whole paranoid train of thought.

“It's funny,” the Vagabond says, moving up next to Jeremy. “You'd be surprised how many people start running when they see the mask.”

Jeremy snorts, lowering his hand, eyes flicking to the pair of feet next to his. Regular old trainers. A little scuffed up and the ends of their laces starting to fray from where the aglets have been worn away.

“Yeah? Who'd have thought,” he says, slowly lifting his head when the Vagabond laughs. An odd little croaky thing that's so stupidly dorky he never would have associated it with someone like the Vagabond. “I mean. Honestly.”

The Vagabond has a wry smile on his face, and shrugs when Jeremy stares at him.

Holds his hand out, like they're at a job interview and says, “I don't think we were ever properly introduced. I'm Ryan.”

========

“You seem less mopey,” Matt says, “Not as emo or something.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jeremy says, focusing on getting his dice even. “Hand me the peppers?”

He's making dinner for the two of them while Matt heckles him and it's all weirdly, comfortably domestic of them.

Matt grins at him and shrugs as he leans his hand in his chin. “Hey, it's what I'm here for, right?”

Jeremy looks over at him, and Matt's still grinning at him. Kind of goofy looking, hair tucked behind his ears, ends dyed a soft pink at the moment.

This guy Jeremy met at a video game store down the street from his work and only got to know because he's seriously misguided when it comes to a certain Pokemon. This dummy who looked at Jeremy and decided he was the kind of loser who'd die if he was left on his own after going down an arm for a bit, and seriously. 

Someone who told Jeremy he might as well move in on a permanent basis when the topic of renewing the lease on his shithole apartment came up, like it wasn't a big deal. 

Who _does that_ in a city like this?

Criminals and no-good assholes everywhere you look and you just never fucking know the way this place works. Would do better to turn into a bitter little hermit hoarding breadsticks and video games.

Jeremy looks at Matt, goofy little smile exchanged for a frown as he pokes at the diced vegetables Jeremy's sectioned off on the cutting board. Looks at him, and has one of those _moments_ where he realizes things are good. 

Better than they have been for a long time, which is just odd, considering everything that's lead to this moment.

Lost Santos is the kind of place Jeremy's been warned against all his life. A city that has no patience for the foolish, no mercy for the weak. All these whispered rumors and stories that read as more urban legend than actual fact and none of it coming close to the reality of the city itself. The people who live there.

People like Matt and the handful of Fakes who keep popping up in Jeremy's life. Giving him shit over his life choices and gently bullying him on a routine basis. The assorted freaks and weirdos who've made lives for themselves here as best as they can and somehow manage to thrive.

“Eh,” Jeremy says, and swats Matt's hands away from the cutting board with the back of the spatula he's holding. “I'll tell you when I figure it out.”

========

Jeremy's luck - 

Well.

It's shit, is what it is.

Gets him into trouble more often than not because he's an idiot. Young and stupid and half-convinced he was invincible for a long, long time.

Long enough that he used to go looking for fights. Something restless in him that led him into situations that always seemed like a good idea at the time. Back when he was younger, stupider, the kind of idiot who'd run face-first into a situation that took him years to dig himself out of. 

Had him running all the way across the country to Los Santos of all places the first chance he got. A city he'd been warned against by people in the same damn hole he was in, like it was somehow worse. Like Los Santos wasn't somewhere he could go, another hard case in a city full of them, and get lost in the shuffle. 

The hell of it is - the worst thing, really - is that it actually works for a while.

Lets Jeremy forget the shit he was running from – that he was even running in the first place - when he meets Matt. Had those little run-ins with the Fakes time and again.

Jeremy's luck has always been a bit shit, and reality kicks him full in the teeth with it when he walks out of his physical therapy session one day and sees a sleek black limo idling across the street. There are a couple of bruisers standing beside it, tall and looming and painfully familiar.

A few years older, new scars and bigger guns and the same nasty look in their eyes when they spot him.

Jeremy glances to the side when he catches movement at the corner of his eye and sees a face he'd hoped he'd never see again.

“Jeremy, my boy. Long time no see.”

Jeremy's skin crawls at the overly familiar greeting. Paternal, _concerned_. 

“You never call, you never write. I was getting the impression you'd forgotten about me.”

When you go out looking for fights, you don't think about the kind of trouble you're going to find. Don't go out there looking to lose, especially when you're young and stupid and half-convinced you're invincible.

Don't realize the bruisers, big mean looking guys with scars and guns and at least fifty pounds on you aren't the real danger out there. That there are guys like this one holding their leashes, giving the orders. 

Grandfatherly with a kind, gentle face and the sort of voice you'd expect to hear reading stories by the fireplace on a cold winter evening in a cozy little cabin somewhere.

“Deacon,” Jeremy says, sees the old bastard's guard dogs crossing the street towards them, perfectly in sync as always. “Didn't expect to see you here.”

Deacon smiles, eyes crinkling with it and Jeremy knows this. 

Expects it when Deacon reaches out, fingers tapping his bad shoulder, eyes sharp. All feigned concern, the sort that you want to believe so badly when you're young and stupid and in way over your head. Makes you think you've found someone who genuinely wants to help you.

“Los Santos is a dangerous city,” he says, as though Jeremy doesn't know. “Bad things happen here.”

Jeremy sees the bruisers move in, just a little. 

“I was worried about you here,” Deacon says, “so I decided I would check on you. See how you've been.”

Jeremy highly doubts Deacon had his well-being in mind.

Deacon sighs, glancing at the building behind Jeremy pointedly. Back to Jeremy and his bad shoulder and creeping dread.

He knows Deacon, knows how his mind works. The way he's so careful, does his research before doing anything. Learns the perfect way to get people to do what he wants, wraps his fingers around their necks and bears down a little bit at a time. So slow, careful you don't realize how fucked you are until it's too late.

There's this little satisfied smile on Deacon's face as he watches Jeremy. Like he knows what buttons to push – always did,really – and has Jeremy exactly where he wants him.

A year or ago and Jeremy would have told Deacon to go to hell and gone on his way. Wouldn't have cared what Deacon might do because Jeremy was alone in Los Santos. New to the city and still getting a feel for it, didn't know anyone here and if he was smart he would have kept it that way, but if it's one thing he's proven to be over the years, it's really goddamned stupid.

Because there's Matt to think about now, isn't there?

Matt and his ridiculous everything, and so now there's anger burning in Jeremy at the calculating look in Deacon's eyes because of course he knows about Matt. Wouldn't have bothered approaching Jeremy like this if he didn't.

“What do you want, Deacon?”

Deacon laughs, this dry raspy thing that Jeremy found comforting once upon a time. Now it just sends a chill down his spine, has Jeremy -

“Jeremy, there you are!”

Jeremy blinks at the unexpected voice. 

Drags his eyes away from Deacon to see Gavin ambling towards him, hand lifted in a friendly little wave. Sees the way his eyes dart to Deacon and his two bruisers, expression never faltering as he slows to a stop beside Jeremy.

Gavin's smiling as he hooks his arm in Jeremy's and tugs him back a step under the guise of stumbling over his own feet. Gives a sheepish little laugh and a quiet apology for his clumsiness as he angles them towards the street and the Ingot pulling up to the curb.

“What - “

Gavin bumps Jeremy with his hip, arm tightening as he pulls him towards the car. Plastic smile on his face and shitty excuses tripping out of his mouth as he bundles Jeremy into the station wagon and away from Deacon and his bruisers.

The moment they're both inside, Mogar steps on the gas at a quiet word from Gavin and they're peeling away into traffic.

Jeremy doesn't say anything for a few minutes as they drive, mind trying to make sense of what just happened. 

He's vaguely aware of Gavin and Mogar bickering about something, the sounds of Los Santos on any given day – people yelling at each other, screeching tires, honking horns, and sirens somewhere in the distance.

After a while it registers with him that they aren't headed back towards Matt's apartment, are in fact going the opposite direction. 

And speeding. 

A lot. 

Really, _really_ a lot.

Enough for him to realize those sirens he was hearing earlier aren't just typical background noise for this city. Are, in fact, getting louder and he can see police lights in the rearview mirror. 

Feels it when Mogar cuts across three lanes of traffic like a madman – or, okay. As close to that as someone driving a station wagon can anyway.

“What – Did you just kidnap me?” Jeremy asks, voice rising in pitch because what the hell? “Are the police _chasing us_?”

Gavin breaks off from arguing with Mogar to look back at Jeremy, and starts laughing. Mogar sighs, eyes meeting Jeremy's in in the rearview mirror.

“Idiot got worried when you didn't show up on time,” Mogar says, voice tight as he maneuvers the Ingot through traffic. 

Okay, so first, it's not like they schedule these little meetups they have after one of Jeremy's physical therapy sessions, so you know. No reason for him to expect them to be concerned if he's late, whatever the hell that means, and second - 

“No, really. Are the police chasing us right now?” 

It could be a coincidence. There are all kinds of reasons the police would be tearing down the road in their direction, right? Dispatch calling them to the scene of a crime in progress or some emergency, but no.

This is Los Santos and Jeremy has just been kidnapped by a pair of Fakes in a crappy little soccer mom station wagon.

“Well it's not like a chrome Adder would be an inconspicuous car to pick you up in, would it?” Gavin asks, like stealing someone's car and ending up in a police chase for it is any better.

========

Somehow - Jeremy will never know how - they manage to get away from the cops. Mogar drives them to a quiet spot somewhere outside the city just off the highway.

Parks the stolen station wagon on a bluff overlooking the ocean and turns the engine off.

“So,” Mogar says, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel.

He's staring out at the Pacific, obviously trying to find some way to ask what the hell is going on with Jeremy, and failing.

So naturally Gavin pokes his nose in, almost literally.

Just sticks himself between their seats, leaning against Mogar for some bit of stability as he stares at Jeremy. 

And for all Mogar grumbles, bitches, about Gavin's stupid fat head being in the way, how damn bony his elbows are, he doesn't budge. Doesn't let Gavin unbalance and fall on his face no matter how much he threatens to do so just to teach him a lesson.

Jeremy braces himself for it. 

The questions, the judgment - which is kind of ironic considering he's dealing with two of the Fake AH Crew right now. People notorious for pulling the craziest heists anyone's ever heard of, but -

There's a major difference between being a guy with a talent for explosives or a guy able to talk rings around just about anyone when he sets his mind to it and someone like Jeremy. 

Some dumb kid who got in over his head and only real claim to fame is the ability to beat someone to a bloody pulp using his fists. Someone who could take a beating and still come out on top. Who used to love the rush of it all.

“Jeremy,” Gavin says with all the gravity of a life-changing question, “are you a P's and Q's kind of man or do you prefer Meteorite bars?”

That's - 

Not really the question Jeremy was expecting?

“...What?”

Mogar snorts, pointing off to their left where the lights from a 24/7 give off a faint glimmer.

“Idiot here says car chases make him hungry, so.” Mogar shrugs, like it's just a coincidence they ended up here, miles outside the city at one of the few 24/7s along this stretch of road.

“I, uh. Both?” Jeremy answers, feeling wrong-footed and a little lost because the way he so often feels around the Fakes, and these two in particular.

Gavin sighs, like Jeremy's life mission is making _his_ life as difficult as possible and ducks away from Mogar's gloating smirk as he pushes the back door of the Ingot open.

“Not a word!” He says, and stalks off towards the convenience store like a man on a mission.

Mogar cackles and rolls down the driver's side window to yell after him, “Get me the peanut ones, you fuck!”

Gavin's response is lost on the wind, but from the way his arm comes up with his hand raised, Jeremy can guess what it was.

Mogar's cackling fades to this amused little chuckle as he reaches for the radio and futzes with it until he finds a station he likes and leaves it on low as he hums along.

Jeremy lets his attention wander, watches seagulls swooping through the air calling to one another. Faint dots of people taking a stroll on the beach below them, the faint hum of traffic on the highway blending in with the music on the radio.

It's calm out here, peaceful in a way life in Los Santos never seems to be.

After a while Jeremy realizes he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Mogar to ask questions Jeremy never really had answers for when it comes to the on-going disaster that is his life.

“You know,” Mogar says, slow, oddly hesitant like he doesn't know how Jeremy will react. “If you're ever in a bind, you can call us.”

That's - 

“Uh...”

Mogar sighs, not unlike the way Gavin did, and looks at Jeremy. Too tired and annoyed to bother with whatever excuse Jeremy's about to come up with, it would seem.

“Look, asshole. All I'm saying here is you helped us out when we needed it, all right? And if you get in trouble, fucking call us and we'll help. Consider it a fucking life-debt if you want, I don't care, because that idiot - “

Mogar jabs a finger towards the figure of Gavin loaded down with several bags double-timing it back to the Ingot, muscle jumping along his jaw. 

“ - Likes you for some godforsaken reason. He'll make all of our lives miserable if you manage to get yourself killed because you're too damn stubborn to accept our help.”

Mogar breaks off to breathe, he's so worked up, eyes narrowed as he glares at Jeremy.

“And hey, I get it, you know? If I were you I wouldn't like the fact that a bunch of assholes like us owe you, but too fucking bad. You had to go and be a decent human being, so fucking accept it and get over yourself already.”

That's, wow. Okay. 

“Jesus,” Jeremy says, wondering what he ever did to deserve any of this. “Fine, already. You should have been an inspirational speaker.”

Mogar rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches as he hands Jeremy a piece of paper with what he can only assume are phone numbers on it. “Fuck off.”

Gavin hops into the back of the Ingot, slightly out of breath and says, like it's supposed to mean anything, “My hand slipped.”

There's a beat of silence, a slight pause, and then - 

“Are you fucking serious?” Mogar yells, as they see a figure emerge from the 24/7.

Clearly furious about something as they point furiously at the three of them and yelling faintly just as the – very distant – sound of sirens reach them.

Jeremy just cannot anymore with these two. Breaks down laughing like an utter lunatic as Mogar gets them the hell out of there before the cops catch up to them. Goddamn dies when Mogar starts yelling at Gavin for being an idiot and Gavin tries to protest his innocence in all of this through his own laughter.

========

Matt's shut up in the spare room when Jeremy gets back later that night (early morning, really), but makes an appearance when he hears Jeremy in the kitchen.

Sits himself down at the kitchen table and watches as Jeremy sets about cooking something for dinner – early breakfast? 

“You're back late.”

Jeremy looks over at him and sees Matt poking at Jeremy's share of the convenience store heist before he pulls it close and starts sorting it. Little piles carefully organized according to some bizarre system of his.

“Things came up,” Jeremy says, thread of worry still with him because Deacon showing up can't be a good thing, but - 

“You win the lottery or something?” Matt ask, frowning at a stray pack of Release gum. “This is a shit ton of candy, dude.”

“Something like that, sure,” Jeremy says.

Jeremy's not the same stupid kid he was back when Deacon had him under his thumb. He's learned a bit since then then, and Los Santos is a very different city than Boston. Different rules to it and Jeremy has the feeling Deacon hasn't quite realized that yet.

========

The problem is, of course, that at the heart of things Deacon's an impatient man.

Used to getting his way, so Jeremy isn't all that surprised when he answer a knock at the door one day to find Deacon waiting for him on the other side.

Or, really, Deacon's bruisers. 

They're not any happier about things than Jeremy is. Show it in the way he gets knocked around a bit on the way to see Deacon. Punch to the jaw, jab to his kidneys, foot to the ribs, that kind of thing.

They're professionals, though, through and through. Careful in how they go about things. Do just enough to make it hurt without doing any serious damage. Good at they do, and proud of it as they drag Jeremy into some building and down into a sickeningly familiar scene.

Lights and seating and a very familiar ring at the center of everything. Pair of fighters facing off, David and Goliath from the look at things – a personal favorite of Deacon's.

Loves to see the little guy get ground into the ground by some hulking goon. Eyes lighting up at the way the bets go, people who favor the underdog tossing money at him as easily as the ones who take a more pragmatic view.

Jeremy's stomach sinks as he takes it all in. If Deacon already has a place like this set up, it means he's taken care of any competition. Come in and cleared out the smaller fighting rings in the city, grabbed up everything for himself.

Made a statement, let everyone know there's a new player in town who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

Speaking of, there's Deacon, watching the whole thing from the best seats in the place. Smile on his face widening as he sees the way Jeremy doesn't look at the ring. The poor kid who's been dragged into this life and has no damn clue what he's in for if Deacon keeps hold of him.

“Jeremy, my boy! How nice of you to join me.”

Jeremy's not looking at the ring, but he can hear everything going down there. Knows exactly what's happening, every blow that lands. The pained noises reaching them from there. Knows that kid's getting the shit kicked out of him because he was dumb enough to run into Deacon somehow.

“I understand you have a roommate,” Deacon says, and it's like someone dumping a bucket of cold water on Jeremy, attention snapping back to the old bastard. “Nice young man from what my people have been able to gather. Works in some kind of video game store, I've been told?”

Jeremy knows Deacon's tricks. The way he says so much without saying anything at all.

Everyone knows how dangerous Los Santos is, robberies everywhere. Why, just look at what happened to Jeremy. (Such a shame, really.)

That anger's back again. Burning hot and steady as Jeremy takes a step towards Deacon heedless of the bruisers at his side because Matt is one of the only good things to happen to him in a long time. Like hell is he going to let someone like Deacon ruin that. Ruin _Matt_.

“Don't you fucking dare.”

Deacon smiles, leans forward. “No?”

A ragged cry rips through the air. Jeremy looks away from Deacon, looks down at the ring even though he knows what he's going to see. 

The damn kid on the ground staring at his arm in shock. Eyes wide and horrified, chest heaving because it's broken, and a broken fighter is no good to someone like Deacon.

Won't bring in the crowds, money, and whatever deal he thinks he has with Deacon is about to come crashing down on him.

“Would you look at that,” Deacon says as though he didn't have this planned out. Didn't bring that kid in here just for Jeremy. “Looks like my fighter just lost. Such a pity.” 

This is what it's like with Deacon, Jeremy knows. Bastard backs you into a corner and lets you make the choice (the wrong one always) you never really have.

“What do you want?” Jeremy asks, feeling tired and sick and trapped.

He has a choice here, sure. Has Mogar's promise for help from the Fakes if he ever needs it, but Jeremy doesn't think he was imagining something like this when he made that offer.

Was probably picturing something smaller, more manageable like a loan shark, maybe. Someone Jeremy owed money to, not _this_. 

“You were always one of my best fighters,” Deacon says, smug, satisfied the way he gets when he knows he has the upper hand. “And since it seems as though Jimmy down there won't be up to it in time, I could use a substitute.”

Of course he could.

Jeremy watches as they pull the kid from the ring, sees the bastard who broke his arm pacing restlessly, agitated. Like he wants to stomp someone else's face into the ground and won't be satisfied until he does.

“I need to make a phone call first.”

He doesn't think Mogar and the Fakes would want to get involved in this, tangle with Deacon and his people over a someone like Jeremy, but they should be up to keeping an eye on Matt. Make sure that idiot stays safe while he figures a way out of this mess.

Deacon smiles, beneficent as always. “By all means.”

========

The ring itself is pretty much the same as Jeremy remembers it.

Blinding lights and the screams and cheers of bloodthirsty assholes who wouldn't last a minute inside themselves echoing in his ears. Pain and blood and a whole lot of hurting.

Being inside the ring is equal parts muscle memory and luck. Resourcefulness, for damn sure as he sizes up his opponents and gets a feel for the way they fight. Doing his best to drop them as hard and fast as he can if he hopes to get out of the fight in decent shape. 

Deacon's got a room set up for him here, stations his two favorite bruisers in the hallway outside it to make sure Jeremy plays nice.

And he does, for the most part.

Lets Deacon think he has the upper hand here as he works out how big his operation is here in Los Santos. If he's looking to establish his fighting rings here before heading back to Boston to oversee things there or if he's had enough of east coast winters and wants to settle down here.

Make a try at running the city, doing what he has to the way he always has to make it to the top.

It's slow-going because Deacon's always been smart. Careful. 

Doesn't really let Jeremy close to sensitive information, but he picks things up here and there. Overhears conversations and maybe provokes his jailers more than is strictly healthy for him. Taunts them into snapping back, dropping hints about what Deacon's doing even as they knock him down, remind him who's in charge here time and again.

Jeremy's just starting to get an idea of what Deacon's planning for Los Santos when the bastard calls him up to his office after a fight. Has his bruisers pull him from that shitty excuse for a locker room and up the endless stairs to his little lair overlooking the ring.

Deacon's behind a desk, big mahogany thing that screams money, power, hands folded in front of him as he greets Jeremy. 

“Jeremy my boy,” Deacon says, something off in his voice. “There are some guests here to see you.”

Jeremy's side is on fire and there's blood dripping into his eye from a cut, so he's not quite at his best when he turns to look at the people seated across from Deacon.

“Ramsey here,” Deacon says, “says there's a bit of conflict regarding your contract with me.”

There is no contract, just Deacon and his fuckery.

Jeremy may or may not actually say that out loud because the guy with Ramsey has a coughing fit of some kind. Turns his head to the side because he's classy, has some fucking manners.

Ramsey's mouth twitches, head cocked to the side as he regards Jeremy.

Something about the way he's looking at Jeremy reminds him he didn't exactly get out of this last fight unscathed. Might have had his head slammed against the ground a time or two.

“Might have,” Ramsey agrees, voice hardening as he looks back to Deacon. “And that's something I'd like to talk to you about, actually.”

Jeremy has no idea what's going on at the moment but he's all for the way Deacon looks genuinely concerned.

Leans back and lets the bruisers do the work of keeping him upright.

Watches Ramsey sit back in his chair easy and relaxed with a small smile on his face as he just looks at Deacon. 

And Deacon, well.

He's never responded well to someone challenging him, and it's pretty damn obvious that's exactly what's happening here. So he reacts, the way he always does.

Leans in and drops all pretense to being a kindly old man who just happens to be involved in certain criminal activities. Has rings like this one all over Boston, is looking to expand his operations.

Tells Ramsey all about the connections he has, back east. The ones he's made here in Los Santos, big-name crews known for their rivalry with the Fake AH Crew. For starting bloody, vicious fights that left an impact on Los Santos. Created _landmarks_.

Lets him know in no uncertain terms what he'll be up against if he so much as thinks of making a move against Deacon. Try to take what he views as his away from him, up to and including Jeremy himself.

And Ramsey, he listens. 

That same little smile on his face as Deacon talks and talks and talks. Rolls out threats and promises and declarations so certain he has the upper hand here, confident and in control and all the more infuriating for it.

But the thing is, Los Santos is an entirely different animal than Boston. Plays by different rules and Deacon's never been a fast learner.

Ramsey raises an eyebrow at Deacon, slides an amused look at man he brought with him. 

Says, like an utter douchebag, “Buddy, do you have any idea who I am?”

Deacon stares at him, nonplussed because who - fucking _who_ \- says something like that with a straight face?

“You might want to call up your little friends,” Ramsey says as he gets to his feet and wanders over to the window looking down on Deacon's ring. “Might want to see how they're doing.”

Deacon looks to his bruisers, and then Jeremy's on the ground as one of them heads out of the office, the other moving up by Deacon to loom menacingly. 

Ramsey and his guy are completely unruffled, look more amused than anything else.

Jeremy gets tired of sitting on the floor and stands up, or tries to, but the world's a little off-kilter at the moment.

Ramsey's guy comes over and holds his hand out. Doesn't say anything, just holds out a hand to Jeremy and leaves it up to him if he takes it, and Jeremy.

He's really tired of sitting on the ground, of being off-balance and backed into corners and this guy, all right.

Magnificent beard and kind eyes and so far Jeremy's had pretty good luck when it comes to the Fakes. Figures taking this guy's hand is a damn sight better than sitting on his ass for whatever is going to happen next.

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, letting the guy pull him to his feet, put an arm around his back to steady him as they make their way to the chair Ramsey isn't using anymore. “Great beard, by the way. I'm a big fan.”

========

Deacon's bruiser comes back half an hour later with a phone, looking worried as he hands Deacon a phone, whispering something in his ear.

Jeremy's head feels a little clearer, less muddled, which is a relief. Means nothing's too badly broken in his head this time around. 

Deacon looks at Ramsey who's still by the window with his hands in his pockets, still calm and relaxed. Like they're all old friends here, no need for drama, right?

Jeremy listens with half an ear as Deacon talks to whoever's on the other end of the line, attention wandering for a bit.

And then he realizes Deacon's voice is getting tighter, anger creeping in along with something he's never heard in the old bastard's voice - _fear_.

Ramsey wanders over, something vicious in the edge of his smile as he looks at Deacon. 

“I've seen a million guys like you over the years,” Ramsey says, like this is something he's said countless times before. “You come into my city and think you can just take over. You throw your weight around like you think it's going to get you anywhere here, and you forget – all of you fuckers forget - Los Santos is _mine_.”

The smile he gives Deacon after that is all apex predator, a man who knows exactly what his place is in the world. 

Says, pretty as you please, “Jack, if you don't mind?”

And the guy Ramsey brought with him, kind eyes and gentle hands, drops Deacon with a bullet between his eyes without a word. 

Shifts his aim and down go the bruisers, neat little holes in their heads to match Deacon's.

Jeremy stares at the bodies for a moment, hands aching as they tighten on the arms of his chair, and looks up at Ramsey. At Jack, almost a hundred percent certain he's about to die here too - 

“So you're Jeremy, huh?”

Jeremy has the oddest moment of déjà vu, remembers Gavin and the way he'd asked the same thing months ago now. 

“Uh, yeah,” Jeremy answers, watching Jack as he pushes Deacon's body out of the way and disconnects the laptop sitting on his desk. Slips it into the bag he's been carrying and starts searching the drawers of that damn desk of his. “Nice to meet you?”

Ramsey laughs, chuckles more like and walks over to Jeremy. Looks down at him, taking in the state of him after a fight. Not the prettiest he's ever been, no way to make a good impression on someone like this.

“Michael warned me,” Ramsey says, sounding like he regrets not taking this Michael's warning seriously. “Said you were going to be nothing but trouble.”

There's a smile on Ramsey's face, though. One that's at odds with his words, that says he happens to like that kind of trouble, which.

Kind of a relief. Means Jeremy might not get a bullet in his head, but - 

“Uh, who?”

========

Michael, as it turns out, is Mogar.

Is actually very, very angry with Jeremy, because of the yelling.

So much yelling.

Incredible amounts of yelling, really.

“Uh, help?” Jeremy says, trying to appeal to Gavin, or the Vagabond. Jack, even, but none of them seem about to step in here. Get Michael to stop with the yelling, all of which boils down to Jeremy being a stupid bastard. “Please?”

“Oh, no, dude,” someone says. “Michael's got a point.”

Jeremy freezes, realizes Michael isn't the real danger here as Matt walks into view. 

He has this pleasant little smile on his face, but his arms are crossed over his chest and going by the look in his eyes, he's not happy with Jeremy.

Is possibly angrier with him than that time Jeremy got shot and tried to act like it was no big deal really. 

“And that's our cue to leave,” Jack says, gently bullying everyone else out of the room and leaving Jeremy to face Matt alone.

“Hey, so,” Jeremy says, “you look good.”

He looks great, all whole and unharmed and all. Not a hair of place, and that tight pressure in Jeremy's chest, the worry about this asshole that's been with him since Deacon's bruisers grabbed him eases up. Lets him take what feels like his first full breath in weeks.

Matt just stares at him. 

Takes in the bruises, bandages covering up the little cuts and gashes from Jeremy's time in the ring thanks to Jack. The way Jeremy's sitting a little stiffly because his ribs are a solid little wall of pain and the painkillers Jack coaxed him into taking haven't taken effect yet.

“I fucking hate you,” Matt says, but it comes out tired, resigned. Like he knows the kind of idiot Jeremy is, and still forgets. Hopes maybe he'll stop being so damn stupid one day even though he has to know better by now.

Jeremy nods, because yeah, he gets that.

“I know.”

Matt snorts, taking a seat across from Jeremy. 

“It took fucking forever to find you, you asshole,” he says, little crack in his voice as he glares at Jeremy. “Even with the tracker Gavin put in your phone - “

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jeremy says, holding up a hand because apparently he's missed something here? “What?”

Matt looks at him like he's stupid, which while completely valid is also hurtful.

“Gavin put a tracker in my phone?” Jeremy asks, because that seems like a good place to start. “ _When_?”

Matt shrugs, waves a hand like it's not important and says, “That night at the convenience store, I guess? He did it a while ago, dude. It's a thing he does.”

“What.”

And then, what Matt just said actually registers.

“Wait, how do you know about that?”

How the hell does Matt know about that when Jeremy very deliberately didn't tell him about it? Didn't tell him anything about his run-ins with the Fakes?

“Uh, what kind of asshole doesn't know what happens in their own crew?” Matt asks, sounding offended. “Of course I know about that.”

Jeremy needs to lie down. Put his feet up, something, because this is. 

“ _What_?”

Matt's staring at Jeremy like he's beyond stupid, so far past it there are no words to describe what he is anymore.

“Wait,” he says. “Wait. Did you not know – Jeremy. You didn't know I'm part of the Fake AH Crew?”

“No!” Jeremy yells, because why would he? “I mean. I figured you were into some shady stuff, but I wasn't expecting this, you dick! You work at a video game store, how was I supposed to know?”

“You've heard me talking to Geoff on the phone before!” Matt yells back, almost confused as to why he's yelling but giving it his all anyway. “And when you were hanging out with the others I just figured you knew!”

Jeremy is so very confused.

“Okay, first,” Jeremy says, making a decision to stop the yelling because it's murder on his poor abused head. “'Geoff' isn't exactly a rare name, all right? And second? Most of the time they were making fun of me or making someone else's life miserable, so you know. No time to tell me my damn roommate is in their crew?”

Matt sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though Jeremy is still the greatest challenge life has decided to place in his path and he has absolutely no idea why he even bothers some days.

“Okay,” Matt says, talking to his feet because apparently that's less frustrating. “So, let's start from the beginning, I guess?”

It's not really a question, so Jeremy stays quiet and lets Matt keep talking to his feet.

“My name's Matt, and during the day I work at a video game store that my boss – Geoff Ramsey, by the way, guy who runs the Fake AH Crew? - thought it would be a good cover or something for me, I don't fucking know. At night I work for the Fake AH Crew – you may have heard of them, they're kind of a big deal here – and do cool hacker things just like in the movies.”

Jeremy is getting the feeling Matt is underwhelmed with Jeremy's level of intelligence, but that's just a feeling.

“Also,” Matt says, finally looking up at Jeremy. “My roommate is a complete asshole.”

“Well,” Jeremy says, because Matt's not wrong on that one, is he. “So is mine?”

“Christ,” Matt says, and launches himself across the coffee table separating them in a surprisingly coordinated athletic feat, a look on his face like he really, really wants to punch Jeremy's dumb face.

Jeremy winces, waits for that to happen because he'd deserve it really, but it never does.

No, what he gets instead is some spindly jackass tackling him out of his chair sending them both to the floor and muttering about what an goddamned idiot Jeremy is. That if he ever tries does something as stupid as this again he's going to have Ryan and the others kill the hell out of him for him.

“Matt,” Jeremy wheezes after a moment because the asshole's heavier than he looks, and also his _ribs_. “I can't breathe, you dick.”

Matt sits up, hands tangled in Jeremy's shirt and glares down at him. Hisses, “Are you saying I'm fat?”

Jeremy's usually smart enough not to answer that question, but this is Matt and Jeremy's probably still a little concussed, so of course he does.

“Kinda, yeah.”

Matt makes a strangled noise of rage and grabs for a throw cushion that fell off the couch and does his best to smother Jeremy, because that's a reasonable sort of response in Jeremy's opinion.

========

So the thing is, Matt's not wrong about Jeremy being an idiot.

He missed a whole hell of a lot. Might be trying to work all of it out while the others are around to squeeze information out of.

Everyone gathered at the penthouse to work on the matter of breaking down Deacon's little empire. 

Has been working with him and Jack on dismantling Deacon's little empire bit by bit. Sharing what he learned in his time working under Deacon and whatever Matt and Gavin were able to pull from the laptop and other files Jack took out of his office. 

So Jeremy hadn't realizes Matt's one of the Fakes, which he still claims is an understandable oversight on his part. Because really, who gives their top hacker a cover job when it's not remotely necessary?

“In case you missed it, I like video games, you ass. Geoff probably figured he was doing me a favor.”

Jeremy _hmm_ s, not really sold on that pet theory of Matt's because he's gotten to know Geoff over the last little while.

“If you say so,” Jeremy says.

“Boys, please,” Trevor says, not bothering to hide his amusement as he troubleshoots crew business on his phone. “Behave.”

Jeremy makes a face but stops tying to rile Matt up for the time being. Ignores the look Matt shoots him, like he thinks Trevor's on his side in this even though he has to know by now the only side Trevor's on is his own.

But back to the things Jeremy was completely oblivious about.

Things like Ryan initially going to the convenience store on Jeremy's shift because he was concerned about Matt's little friend. The idiot who was in so in love with Voltorb he was past seeing sense, because he was new to town and no one knew what was going on with that.

And then the others had gotten into things when Ryan showed up to the penthouse in the middle of the night and told them to leave him alone. That it was better if they kept crew business away from him. And that, naturally backfired because they're all nosy bastards who were worried because according to Gavin, Ryan had sounded sad about it, like someone had just run over his puppy.

“Shut the hell up,” Ryan mutters, like everyone can't see the way he's blushing like an idiot without his damn mask and face paint. “I was trying to be considerate. Something you assholes might want to try someday.”

Michael starts cackling, and Gavin's squeaking. Jack's chuckling and Geoff is dying, slapping his hand on the table as he laughs like that's the funniest damn thing he's heard in his life.

“Assholes,” Ryan mutters, and whips a throw cushion at Gavin, crooked smile on his face.

After that it's just a jumble of conflicting stories and people calling Jeremy an idiot for getting himself shot, as if he'd intended for that to happen - 

“You started working at a goddamn convenience store,” Michael snaps. “In _Los Santos_.”

And, yeah. Fair point.

“We were worried,” Gavin chimes in, referring to that vastly confusing time in Jeremy's life when several members of the Fake AH Crew traded off babysitting duty for him. “And it's a good thing we were, otherwise - “

“Would you look at that!” Trevor says loudly, reaching over to grab the back of Gavin's shirt and bodily dragging him out of his chair. “Lindsay called, said there's a new location for us to deal with!”

Geoff rolls his eyes and gets the others moving, making sure everyone leaves the except for Matt and Jeremy and wow, talk about subtle.

Matt's not looking at Jeremy, is seemingly very focused on his phone and the crappy little mobile game he's been fighting with for the past hour or so. 

“I'm sorry,” Jeremy says, even though he isn't. Not really. Not when he knew perfectly well how Deacon worked, the way he would have gone after Matt as a lesson for Jeremy. 

Matt snorts, because he knows Jeremy. Knows what he sounds like when he's full of shit.

“Fuckin' liar,” he says, and finally, finally looks up. 

“I get it, you know,” he says, and gestures at himself. “I'm kind of useless when it doesn't have to do with video games or computers, but I'm still going to be pissed at you for forever, in case you were wondering.”

That's another fair point because that's how Jeremy would feel if their positions were reversed. 

“Makes sense,” Jeremy says, and smiles at the withering look Matt gives him.

Definitely still angry about Jeremy's stupid plan. Doing what he could to keep Matt safe until he found a way to take Deacon down himself or someone in the city decided he was getting too ambitious. No real hope that any of it would work out, but hoping like hell the Fakes would keep Matt safe at the very least, honor the promise Michael had given him.

He'd had some faint hope the Fakes might have played a part based on their reputation, but he hadn't known for sure. 

“Yeah, you're kind of an idiot,” Matt says, but there's something in his eyes that says even he hadn't been sure which way his crew would go on that one. Been burned by life and shitty things it threw his way before now, just enough for doubt and uncertainty to take hold. “But so are the rest of us.”

And that - 

Jeremy smiles, because like it or not, this is where he's ended up.

Newest prospect for the Fake AH Crew with some decent referrals to recommend him. Matt eyeing him like he's trying to figure out what has Jeremy smiling like the idiot he is.

As though this isn't a good place, a goddamned great place to end up after everything's said and done.

“You're not wrong,” Jeremy admits, because he isn't, is he? Damn idiots all of them, and it shows in everything they do. 

Not a bad place to be, not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> To my knowledge Voltorb isn't a version exclusive pokemon in any of the existing games, that was a bit of ~artistic license on my part because reasons. *hands*


End file.
